And thus these lines and ramparts rude
Were left in deepest solitude.

III.

And, for they were so lonely, Clare
Would to these battlements repair,
And muse upon her sorrows there,
And list the sea-birds cry;

Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide
Along the dark-gray bulwarks' side,
And ever on the heaving tide

Look down with weary eye.
Oft did the cliff and swelling main.
Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane,
A home she ne'er might see again;
For she had laid adown,

So Douglas bade, the hood and veil,
And frontlet of the cloister pale,
And Benedictine gown:

It were unseemly sight, he said,
A novice out of convent shade.
Now her bright locks, with sunny glow,
Again adorned her brow of snow;
Her mantle rich, whose borders, round,
A deep and fretted broidery bound,
In golden foldings sought the ground;
Of holy ornament, alone

ed a cross with ruby stone;

often did she look

On that which in her hand she bore,
With velvet bound and broidered o'er,
Her breviary book.

In such a place, so lone, so grim,
At dawning pale, or twilight dim,
It fearful would have been

To meet a form so richly dressed,

With book in hand, and cross on breast,
And such a woful mien.

Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,
To practise on the gull and crow,
Saw her, at distance, gliding slow,

And did by Mary swear

Some lovelorn fay she might have been,
Or, in romance, some spell-bound queen;
For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen
A form so witching fair.

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IV.

Once walking thus at evening tide,
It chanced a gliding sail she spied,

And, sighing, thought-"The Abbess, there,
Perchance, does to her home repair;
Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free,
Walks hand in hand with Charity;
Where oft Devotion's tranced glow
Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow
That the enraptured sisters see
High vision and deep mystery:
The very form of Hilda fair,
Hovering upon the sunny air
And smiling on her votaries' prayer.
O! wherefore, to my duller eye,
Did still the Saint her form deny!

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Was it, that, sear'd by sinful scorn,

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My heart could neither melt nor burn?
Or lie my warm affections low

With him that taught them first to glow?
Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew,

To pay thy kindness grateful due,
And well could brook the mild command
That ruled thy simple maiden band.
How different now! condemned to bide
My doom from this dark tyrant's pride.
But Marmion has to learn, ere long,
That constant mind and hate of wrong,
Descended to a feeble girl

From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's Earl:
Of such a stem, a sapling weak,

He ne'er shall bend, although he break.

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V.

"But see! what makes this armor here?" For in her path there lay

Targe, corslet, helm; - she viewed them near.
"The breast-plate pierced! — Ay, much I fear,
Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's spear,
That hath made fatal entrance here,

As these dark blood-gouts say.

Thus Wilton!-Oh! not corslet's ward,
Not truth, as diamond pure and hard,
Could be thy manly bosom's guard

On yon disastrous day!".

She raised her eyes in mournful mood,-
WILTON himself before her stood!

It might have seemed his passing ghost,
For every youthful grace was lost;

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And joy unwonted and surprise

Gave their strange wildness to his eyes. -
Expect not, noble dames and lords,
That I can tell such scene in words:
What skilful limner e'er would choose
To paint the rainbow's varying hues,
Unless to mortal it were given

To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?
Far less can my weak line declare

Each changing passion's shade;
Brightening to rapture from despair,
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there,
And joy, with her angelic air,

And hope that paints the future fair,
Their varying hues displayed:
Each o'er its rival's ground extending,
Alternate conquering, shifting, blending,
Till all fatigued the conflict yield,
And mighty Love retains the field.
Shortly I tell what then he said,
By many a tender word delayed,
And modest blush and bursting sigh,
And question kind and fond reply:-

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VI.

DE WILTON'S HISTORY.

"Forget we that disastrous day,

When senseless in the lists I lay.

Thence dragged — but how I cannot know,

For sense and recollection fled, –

I found me on a pallet low

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Within my ancient beadsman's shed.

Austin, remember'st thou, my Clare,
How thou didst blush, when the old man,
When first our infant love began,

Said we would make a matchless pair?
Menials and friends and kinsmen fled
From the degraded traitor's bed,-
He only held my burning head,
And tended me for many a day,

While wounds and fever held their sway.
But far more needful was his care,
When sense returned to wake despair;

For I did tear the closing wound,
And dash me frantic on the ground,
If e'er I heard the name of Clare.
At length, to calmer reason brought,
Much by his kind attendance wrought,
With him I left my native strand,
And, in a palmer's weeds arrayed,
My hated name and form to shade,
I journeyed many a land;
No more a lord of rank and birth,
But mingled with the dregs of earth.
Oft Austin for my reason feared,
When I would sit, and deeply brood
On dark revenge and deeds of blood,
Or wild mad schemes upreared.

My friend at length fell sick and said

God would remove him soon:

And, while upon his dying bed,

He begged of me a boon If e'er my deadliest enemy

Beneath my brand should conquered lie,